


Horsie

by xsunny



Category: Joyeux Noël | Merry Christmas (2005)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsunny/pseuds/xsunny
Summary: The door to the room bursts open. Confusion. Usually nobody goes there. If he didn't pay attention, he could have cut himself with the sharp knife.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Horsie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 300 words challenge proposed by our Joyeux Nöel group. (It's hard not writing more!)
> 
> If you loved the movie too, drop a line and come join us. :)

He hears shouting outside. Nothing uncommon in a hospital. What's uncommon is the yelling is not stopping, other people joining in, like a fire catching and spreading fast. 

So many different voices now, and they sound… _happy_? He also hears laughing, singing. Someone calling him excitedly.

"Horsie! Horsie!"

The door to the room bursts open. Confusion. Usually nobody goes there. If he didn't pay attention, he could have cut himself with the sharp knife. 

"It's over! The war is over!" 

He doesn't turn around, but does move his head in the direction of the voice and nods, no words available. The person leaves, running and laughing, to join the others. 

The door is left open, the long corridor with wide windows and clean floors a path leading to and leaving from the darker room with small high windows he's in. He starts to peel the potato he's holding again. 

Until he doesn't, anymore. He rests his hands, the one with the potato and the one with the knife, on his knees. 

He looks to the wall right in front of him, to the dancing forms created by the light passing through the branches of the thick tree outside, the leaves moving with the wind. He looks to the pile of potatoes waiting to be peeled on the floor, soon to be turned into much needed sustenance.

He doesn't really see anything, his mind in other places, other times.

It's over. It's _finally_ over. 

The meaning of it washes over him like a torrent of sensations, memories, pain, hope. For some moments, it’s like the world has stopped.

And then it starts to spin again, so fast he has to breathe in and out.

He respectfully puts the potato on the non-peeled bucket, the knife on the peeled one. 

He cries. 


End file.
